Forgotten
by iamlibertine
Summary: Lavender never quite got over Ron ...  First ever fic, please be nice, and review?


**Forgotten.**

I crept out of the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping man beside me, avoiding the creaky floorboard, and quickly dressing in last night's clothes. Little black dress, towering heels and a leopard print fur coat. I picked up my black lace knickers and threw them onto the bedside table, where they caught on the lap and dangled like a naughty tassel. I smiled to myself. Picking my red lipstick out of my little handbag, i scrawled a note on the mirror. 'Thanks, x'. There was no reason for him to know my name, because i certainly didn't know his. With a final check of the room to see if i'd left anything else behind, I tiptoed out of the door, and into the chilly air of the street.

I didn't really feel the cold on my bare legs on the twenty minute walk home, although i did regret choosing a conquest that lived so close to me. There was a high possibility that he might see me on the bus, on the tube, on the street, or in the local shop. I'd fucked him, and now i had no desire to see him again anytime soon. I must have looked like such a tramp; messy hair, ripped stockings, the literal definition of the phrase 'fur coat, no knickers'. I didn't care though, I never do.

I fell in love for the first (and only) time, at the age of sixteen, I was young, and stupid, and infatuated with a certain, now-world famous redhead, Ron Weasley. I lost my virginity to him on the big scarlet couch in the Gryffindor common room, a few days before he unceremoniously dumped me. Since then, I've realised that there's no such thing as Love, only Stupidity.

Being part of the relatively small wizarding community made it harder to avoid him, and all my memories of our time together. I'd see him at work, (we both work at the ministry, i'm a lowly secretary, he's a big-shot member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.) giving his bitch of a wife, that geeky Granger girl from school, a sweet little kiss on the lips or a cheeky wink, full of seduction and promise. It made me sick to my stomach, every cute little gesture made the bile rise up in my throat, burning like fiendfyre. I saw his wedding photos splashed across the pages of The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly.

It's Ron Weasley's fault that I am like I am. It's his fault that all i'm ever after is a quick fuck. As long as I get to come, I'm happy. It's his fault that I don't _feel _any more. The only feelings I can distinguish out of my near-permanent haze of bitterness and hurt are Lust, building up like a volcano as yet another faceless, nameless man pushes me up against a wall, or into the floor, or onto a couch, whispering in my ear how hot I am, how much he wants me, how much he needs me. Lust, as I fuck him back, sweating and screaming, digging my nails into his back, leaving scratches, running rivulets of blood, as I suck his neck, marking him as mine. Lust, as we both explode in a cacophony of screams, and grunts, and 'YES' and 'MORE'. Then, Shame, as he rolls off me and away, falling asleep almost instantly. Shame, as I gather my clothes up and dress, but don't bother to tidy up my hair or make up, which are dishevelled and smeary. Shame, as I creep away from yet another bedroom, or lounge, or back alley, or grimy hotel room, leaving behind only a note scrawled in lipstick and my knickers.

I always leave them behind, you see, so I'm not forgotten. I scratch and bite and bruise their skin, so I'm not forgotten. They don't know my name, and I don't know theirs, but the difference is, that they won't forget that night, but I can, they all blur into one for me, and I can't distinguish one face from another. I can forget about then, but they can't forget about me like Ron did. He swore that he loved me, he said we'd be forever, but he just ... forgot.

So now, I don't even pretend to love them. I keep emotions out of the equation, I take what I need, and then I leave. That way, no one gets hurt.

I do it because I hate Ron for ruining me. For making me into a slut. I hate him more than any other fucker who has ever hurt me, put together. He betrayed me, he lied to me, he _broke_ me. I can't look at him without the fire of my loathing starting deep in my belly, licking at my insides, burning away anything pure and good. Still, I hate me more. I hate myself for still wanting him, I still want to feel him in my arms, and every single anonymous nobody I screw, just to feel something, becomes him in my mind, and it's Ron every time, Ron i'm scratching, biting, fucking, possessing. The fire of my loathing fights with the fire of my Lust, and I know i'll never be good for anything but a cheap, quick fuck where no-one else's eyes can see. I'm worthless.


End file.
